Uncharted
by Brittany Diamond
Summary: The thought of loving a man is more than startling to Watson. Holmes leads the way. Movieverse with original book-style tendencies. Holmes/Watson SLASH, slow-building. Rated MATURE for later chapters. 250 reviews!
1. Chapter One

**Author's Note: **Woo, first H/W fic! We all knew it was inevitable.

I've got this fic mapped out over nine chapters, with the Steamy Factor increasing exponentially with each chapter.

Just, you know…fyi.

* * *

**Chapter One:**

Sitting at a table in the middle of The Royale restaurant in London, Watson absently pushed the potatoes around on his plate as he stared down at them with a furrowed brow. He directed the pieces into the juice from his untouched steak and watched as the vegetable soaked up the liquid at a moment's notice.

Another case solved, yet something was wrong.

As it had turned out, to everyone's surprise but Holmes', the culprit of the recent string of slain women had been a mild-mannered nurse maid with quite a possessive nature where her employer, a sturdy businessman, was concerned. It seemed she didn't care for viable marriage candidates wandering into the businessman's path so, to put things in gentle terms, she took it upon herself to remove the competition. A briefly lingering stare from the maid to the object of her devotion in the presence of Holmes had led the great detective down the mental path that concluded her guilt, and thus a three week long case came to a not-too-thrilling end.

And yet, even though the streets had been made a little safer once again thanks to his and Holmes' efforts, he still couldn't help but feel…unsettled. Normally he would just write it off as pre-wedding jitters, but things had been rather exceptional with Mary as of late, so he was wary of drawing that conclusion. As for Holmes-

A dinner roll landed smack in the center of Watson's plate, lightly splashing his hand with a few drops of steak juice. His eyes slid upward to find Sherlock Holmes sitting across the elegant table, calmly cutting apart and eating the meal set before him as if absolutely nothing had happened.

"Holmes," Watson said in a slightly annoyed tone, whipping his napkin from his lap and drying off his hand.

The detective looked up as if he had been startled, "Oh, I do beg your pardon, Watson. I possessed no conceivable notion that you were, in fact, present at this table. Were you saying something of vital, rapturous importance?"

Watson knew he was in the wrong this time and put up no fight. "My apologies for turning a deaf ear," he began, setting down the napkin, "it seems I haven't been able to focus since the case was solved."

"I believe those potatoes would tell quite a different story," Holmes teased gently, but with conviction in his eyes.

A moment of silence passed as Watson became lost in his thoughts once more, prompting Holmes to set down his knife and fork, saying "Perhaps I should ask them to tell it?"

"They'd be of small help considering you knocked them unconscious with a piece of bread."

Their eyes met then, as did their nearly untraceable smiles.

The humor passed through Watson and he found himself back at the same place as before. Letting out a small sigh, he shifted in his seat, unsure of where to begin but confident in the fact that he had, and always would have, Holmes' undivided attention at moments such as this.

"It's like I've been in a fog," Watson admitted, "and I'm certain that something is waiting to be found. I'm headed in the right direction, but it's impossible to see what's there."

Holmes didn't contemplate his friend's words for long, "You _did_ postpone the wedding once again."

"It's not Mary. Mary's fine, wonderful. We only pushed back the date this time so that her aunt from America could be available to attend."

It was Holmes' turn to shift in his seat, "Splendid. Is it possible that there is an aspect of the case that you find unsatisfying?"

"Well, that's all that's left, isn't it? You and the case."

Holmes nodded in acknowledgement, and an expression surfaced on his face that Watson didn't encounter very often. The best way Watson had come to describe this particular look was as one of expectance. Holmes seemed to be waiting for something, and patiently at that. Watson had never asked his friend about these moments, they were too few and far between to really bear mentioning, but in this instance he thought now was as good a time as any.

"Are you expecting me to say something when you look like that?" Watson asked, unable to hide the curiosity in his voice.

Holmes' eyes fluttered as he snapped out of the moment and resumed eating his food. "I am expecting you to possess enough deductive reasoning to discern the truth of your own mystery, yes," he said in a genuine tone.

The answer was simple, but satisfying enough, so Watson moved on, "Now that you ask, I believe this type of haze could have been brought on by the case."

"Is there any specific aspect of the case that calls out to you as being particularly ambiguous or unsatisfactory?" Holmes signaled their waiter for the bill, "The conventional ending, perhaps? I myself greatly prefer when the solution proves to be far more grand in scale than a simple case of psychotic jealousy."

Watson felt as if he had taken a step forward in the fog, "I don't think it was the anticlimactic ending. I think it was her, the maid. Something about her."

The waiter arrived, and Holmes took out the necessary cash, paying the exact amount before speaking again. "Don't tell me you've spotted an imperfection in my exhaustingly detailed and expertly arranged explanation of the maid's irrefutable guilt?"

Watson shot his friend a wry look at the self-congratulatory language, "Your conclusion was flawless, Holmes, no one's disputing that. This has more to do with her motivation…I think."

Watson found his grasp of this train of thought slipping and he looked across the table. For the second time that night, Holmes was wearing that cryptic, expectant expression. This time it passed much more quickly, as it seemed the detective had arrived at a conclusion of his own.

"It is evident that this is an issue entirely left up to your mind to piece together," Holmes explained, "but I believe it would be beneficial if I offered an inquiry that may or may not aid you in the sorting out of this fog you find yourself in."

"Yes?" Watson urged lightly as they stood up to take their leave.

Holmes took one last sip of his wine before looking his companion in the eye, "Why are we here?" Watson's brow furrowed at the question, but Holmes held up a hand to prevent him from speaking. "Think of it as a riddle, my dear Watson."

They made their way out of the restaurant in an easy, contemplative silence.


	2. Chapter Two

** Chapter Two:**

-Three Days Later-

Waiting was the bane of Holmes' existence.

The detective had never been terribly apt to tolerate anything that required a great deal of patience if it meant he had to sit and stagnate while he did it, and this particular endeavor required a tremendous amount of quiescence. This on top of the fact that he had gone three days with no case work and he was on the brink of, what ones with a lesser vocabulary would refer to as, 'losing it.'

Holmes sat in his room, playing Beethoven on his violin but not really taking the time to enjoy the sound and feel of the music. Watson was off in his old room, perusing the newspaper for possible work and probably taking a few minutes to brood now and then for good measure. Ever since their last dinner at The Royale, the doctor had taken to brief bouts of quiet contemplation whenever it seemed he could get away with it. This was, undoubtedly, a direct cause of Holmes throwing the riddle his way.

Ah yes, the riddle; the very source of all this recent trouble. Holmes inwardly scorned himself for the fifth time that hour for laying down breadcrumbs to an end that stood to cause far more damage than anything else. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't do a single thing to push Watson down that road, regardless of how much he desired such a road be traveled, and yet here he was offering puzzles with only one solution. One dangerous, terrifying solution.

With every passing second his muscles became increasingly tense. Sooner or later Watson would piece things together, he was a clever fellow after all, and then…well, there was absolutely no telling what would happen then. Holmes could theorize about possible outcomes, and he had, but human behavior was a cunning beast and this sort of territory was more or less uncharted, providing no basis for comparison.

Holmes pulled the bow across the strings of the violin with particular verve, and that's when it happened. Every muscle in his shoulders clamped down with a vengeance, causing him to drop his instrument to the floor and sit with his arms out, trying his best not to move as he gritted his teeth in agony.

"Watson!" he yelled, trying to breathe deeply, "_Watson_!"

His response time always short, Watson stepped into the room with a sense of calm that could only come with handling repeated instances of Holmes finding disastrous trouble in his own room.

"What is it this time?" Watson asked, his tone a mixture of exasperation and genuine concern, "If you've done something to Gladstone-"

He cut himself off when he caught sight of Holmes' peculiar sitting position. Holmes managed a little wave of his right hand, beckoning the doctor to come closer, and he was obliged.

"It seems the muscles along my shoulders have thought it best to revolt against my very being," Holmes informed, straightening suddenly as a tendon wreaked particular havoc along his left side.

Watson wasted no time in offering his services as he said, "Allow me," and leaned his cane up against the debris that often found itself piled around Holmes' room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Holmes saw Watson positioning himself behind his chair and a different sense of alarm began to shoot through his body.

"No, no, that's quite all right," Holmes insisted, leaning forward to distance himself from his friend's grasp despite the agony it induced.

As he reached out and gently pulled the detective back to his original position, Watson scoffed, "Don't be mad, Holmes, you need the tension rubbed out of you."

"Not in the slightest, I'm fit as a proverbial fiddle," Holmes' eyes widened, "Fiddle! Watson, where's my violin?"

"It's on the floor by your chair, now _relax_."

Watson gripped Holmes' shoulders then, and the detective became categorically still. The doctor's hands moved firmly about the area in need, manipulating the taught muscle with near-expert precision. Holmes winced whenever a particular rough spot was hit, but after the initial discomfort he was able to settle into the rhythm.

"How did this happen?" Watson asked, still intent on his work.

Holmes' eyes were fixed ahead, unblinking, "I must be making use of my violin to an unhealthy extent."

He loathed lying to the man, but it's not as if he could have opted for the truth without drastic recourse.

"You really must lay off that thing every once and a while, especially if it's gotten to the point of cramping your muscles."

"It relaxes me."

Watson made deep circular motions into his shoulder blades. "You can hardly make that argument now," he contended with a slight, fond smile in his tone.

"Indeed? I always held the belief that one could argue any point so long as one possessed an adequate grasp of the English language."

Watson pressed his fingertips into the sides of Holmes' neck, causing the detective to shiver slightly.

"Is anything wrong?" Watson inquired.

Holmes lightly cleared his throat. "Your hands are cold," he muttered.

That was two lies in three minutes. At this rate even Holmes wouldn't be able to keep track of all the things he needed to kick himself about later.

Watson settled back into a regular motion on Holmes' shoulders then, first gripping with his thumbs then kneading with the heels of his hands. The feeling was heaven to Holmes' tension and he sank into it.

A few moments of silence passed between them, just long enough to warrant a change in subject.

"I've been considering your riddle," Watson began, "and I must admit I don't see how it connects to my concern with the maid."

An alarm went off in Holmes' head, but it was mostly drowned out by the warmth he could feel from Watson's hands. "Most interesting. I'm curious as to what you've reasoned out so far," he admitted.

"For a brief moment I was under the impression that 'Why are we here' was a philosophical inquiry, but I quickly banished that theory because I highly doubted you would link the question of human being's existence to my unsettled attitude towards the maid."

Holmes' eyes slid closed. "I've made such elegant leaps in logic before."

"But those arguments had a proper foundation, and there was none here," Watson pointed out, "So, naturally, the only other question you could have been proposing was why we were at The Royale, and the answer to that reveals nothing of extraordinary value."

Was Watson's rate of speech slowing? It was difficult for Holmes to tell as he was preoccupied with the comfortable darkness behind his closed eyes and the even more comfortable cadence of the doctor's hands over his clothed skin.

"And what does that answer reveal?" Holmes' asked. His voice was only at half volume now.

"We were there to celebrate, and it was your favorite restaurant."

"But it is not yours."

"No."

Something in Holmes' mind was telling him to turn back, trying to warn him, although now he couldn't quite remember what it was he needed to avoid.

"Why did you agree to go then?" Holmes inquired.

Watson's voice seemed to have taken on a lilting edge, "I wanted you to enjoy yourself."

The grip on Holmes' shoulders had lessened, but still remained. The detective could feel the hands still probing slightly, but a massage was no longer the goal. Holmes' eyes slowly opened. He didn't dare move.

He wanted to stop himself, he _should_ stop himself, but the words felt like they were being pulled from him. Not against his will, but by it.

"You sacrifice your enjoyment for the sake of mine," Holmes stated quietly.

"Sometimes."

"Do you do this for everyone?"

"Only one other person."

"Who?"

"Mary."

Holmes felt his chest tighten, "How do you feel about Mary, in comparison to me?"

"I don't feel an ounce for Mary what I feel for you."

Holmes held his breath.

Watson's hands stopped.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three:**

Watson took a single, deliberate step backward. Holmes' shoulders went cold at the absence of his friend's touch as he rose to his feet. He had thought about this very moment a hundred times over – what he would do, what he would say. He even dared to consider a happy ending once or twice, and he was not one to cling to optimism when all evidence pointed to the contrary. Yet now that it was real, tangible, he could truly grasp the foolishness of his thinking. He had been an idealist to even entertain the notion that this situation could end in anything other than the demise of the most important companionship he had ever come to know. All of this was waiting behind him, and in that moment he would have sooner fled London than faced what he had done.

With one tense motion, Holmes turned around.

The blank expression on Watson's face was almost too much to behold.

It was clear that Watson had been shell-shocked. He was unmoving, unblinking, barely existing. Holmes swallowed hard, searching desperately for some kind of action to take. He didn't want to move, that might startle both of them. He didn't want to speak, that might have an even more adverse affect than moving. The only option left to him with was to stand there, finally exposed for all to see, and wait.

He was astounded when he didn't have to wait long.

"Holmes," Watson murmured in a cracked voice, "I'm so sorry…"

The doctor's face contorted slightly as if he was in physical pain. He put a hand to his stomach and looked away. Picking up his cane, he stepped towards the door.

At first, Holmes didn't understand what he was hearing. An apology? Of all the different possibilities Holmes had imagined, an act of remorse from Watson's side had never crossed his mind. If Watson was asking for forgiveness, then he must think that Holmes was innocent.

Holmes' face fell.

_Innocent._

The detective was across the room in a flash, grabbing hold of Watson's arm to keep him from opening the door. Watson instantly pulled away and demanded at least some space, but his attention had been earned.

"You don't understand," Holmes said, struggling to remain calm. "This isn't…or, that is to say, you're not…"

At the sign of hesitation, Watson quietly turned to flee once more. Holmes tried to catch him again, and Watson surprised him by not only pulling away, but shoving him backward.

"I don't know what's happening!" Watson exclaimed, holding an arm out in front of him to keep the distance but still avoiding the other man's eyes.

"I know," Holmes replied as he regained his balance, "and I encourage you to shriek and vociferate as much as you need, but there is one imperative aspect that you must understand." He took in a deep breath, let it out. "It's not only happening to you."

Watson glanced up at the detective as the full meaning of those words sank in. Their eyes met in a solid, claustrophobic stare, and Holmes was now faced with an even greater difficulty: He knew now that couldn't give up even if he wanted to.

Looking into Watson's confused, overwhelmed gaze and seeing that his friend was now fully aware, Holmes couldn't turn away. The reality was harsh, the odds were insurmountable, but he wasn't going to let this slip away from him. Even if it called for more waiting and inaction, this would not end without a fight.

Off in the distance, the front door opened, and both men jumped.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson called. "It's the first of the month!"

The eye contact now broken, Watson escaped the room. Holmes had no choice but to let him go.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four:**

-One week, two days later-

In all manner of speaking, Watson was a fool. He was a fool for taking cases with Holmes, a fool for befriending such a madman in the first place, and a fool for not figuring out the bloody riddle on his own so he could have been spared the scene in Holmes' apartment.

Watson strolled through the busy streets of the city, only aware of the surrounding people enough to avoid bumping into them. Over the past nine days Watson had managed to sort it all out, doing so far away from the detective on Baker Street. It was clear to him now that his ambiguous haze in regard to the maid who had murdered so many women had existed because it drew such a parallel to Holmes. The only real difference between the two was that Holmes hadn't killed anyone. Of course, in order to even realize this Watson had needed to be aware of certain developments in his own nature, which must have been why Holmes thought a riddle necessary. But that did not excuse him from being a blatant, unimaginable fool. He had relived every possible moment he could remember where Holmes was involved, and amidst every memory was evidence that forced him to draw the same conclusion.

A conclusion that he could barely understand, let alone speak of.

He'd heard of a few cases where men were tried, convicted, and sentenced to death for acts that were too despicable to even be described in any sort of public forum. He remembered coming across those stories and shaking his head, thoroughly disturbed by the lows that humanity could reach. Now here he was, down at the bottom with the rest of the filth and, to make matters worse, Holmes had confessed to possessing the same affliction. A fact that threatened to tarnish every opinion Watson had ever held of his dear companion.

It made him sick to think about it for too long. He was engaged to be married, for god's sake. This is not something one should face in a lifetime, and here he was confronting such an appalling notion with a wedding date looming overhead.

Watson came to a stop and looked up, 221B Baker Street towering over him. He didn't know why these indecent urges had decided to take hold. All he knew was that, for the sake of Holmes, Mary and himself, such things had to be avoided at all costs. Goodbye was the only way.

Walking up the steps, he took out his key, unlocking the door and slipping inside. He found a very still silence in the home, which set his already harrowed nerves on an even sharper edge. Habit wanted him to call out the detective's name, but he forced the impulse down as he crossed the foyer.

Ascending the flight of stairs towards Holmes' room, Watson observed his surroundings. This place held such fond, and infuriating, memories which did little to soothe him now, whereas only a handful of days ago he would have readily welcomed the comfort. The familiar atmosphere of closeness and intimacy merely highlighted the guilt that was running rampant in his chest.

The door to the room he sought was wide open, and Watson stepped inside, his eye watchful. Everything was as it should be, which is to say it was a mess, and he frowned a little. He hadn't heard of Holmes taking on a case, and without work to keep him busy the detective often fell into an odd sort of heightened chaos until a puzzle came across his path. So to find things no worse than the last time he left sent up a mild alarm in the back of his mind.

A distinct, surprised voice came from seemingly nowhere, "Watson?"

Holmes stepped out from behind a high pile of furniture and junk with an open book resting in both hands.

Watson felt his blood stop flowing as he looked upon his old friend. He didn't have to ask how Holmes had detected his presence; he was well aware of the man's keen sense of smell. Holmes himself looked as if no time had passed between nearly a week and a half ago and now, with the exception of his eyes. They were exhausted, almost blood-shot with sleep deprivation.

Watson found that he was commenting on this before he could stop himself. "Have you slept at all since last I saw you?"

Holmes' mouth twitched slightly as he set the book down on a small table nearby. "An hour or two," he replied.

"A night?"

"A week."

Watson shifted his weight and shook his head. "You need sleep, Holmes."

"My mind has been rather occupied as of late," he admitted almost reluctantly.

"You've taken a case?"

The doctor knew damn well that it wasn't a case that robbed Holmes of his rest, but he wasn't ready to address that. Not yet.

Holmes tapped a simple rhythm on the book he had been reading. "An intriguing bit of a mystery has wandered across my path, but I did not discover it until just today," he said, eyes fixed on the man before him. "Burglary-homicide. A man named Alistair Barrington was slaughtered in his home and the only possessions unaccounted for are several decorative little ships in glass bottles. I was researching exactly how such trinkets are produced when you entered in a most uncharacteristically covert manner. Although, in this particular case, it doesn't take seasoned powers of deductive reasoning to surmise why you would select such a method for your entrance."

Watson didn't know why was surprised that Holmes managed to cut to the point of this meeting in a few short sentences, but he did know what that particular expression on the detective's face meant now. He felt his grip on the cane tighten. Though he knew he should say something – anything – to try and change the subject until he was on stronger ground, he stayed silent. As the dense quiet grew heavy between them, Watson couldn't help but keep his eyes locked with the detective's. He hadn't been in Holmes' presence more than three minutes and he was already making concessions that he simply could not afford. If this was going to happen, it needed to happen now.

"Might I take this opportunity," Holmes began, stepping forward, "to state an inquiry?"

Watson was startled out of his thoughts. All he could do was nod.

Holmes' tone was gentle but grave, "Why are you so very reluctant to discuss this matter with me?"

Watson was taken back momentarily by his friend's cavalier attitude. "Why shouldn't I be?" he retorted at last.

"We have discussed every topic conceivable," Holmes pointed out, only a few strides away now. "I am as close to you as you are to me."

Watson was becoming increasingly aware of the detective's advances. "Stop."

"If you could allow me an explanation…"

"I'm warning you," Watson swore in a low voice, shifting his grip to the middle of his cane.

Holmes took one more step. "I believe you have made the assumption that all that is being addressed here is an attraction of the physical body."

Watson struck Holmes clear across the right side of his face with the handle of his cane, sending the detective staggering backward. Holmes took a moment to regain his balance, then found the chair closest to him, and immediately sat down.

Watson stood motionless, stunned. "You could have blocked that," he stated simply, "I gave you fair warning."

Holmes looked up, one hand covering his eye as he stated matter-of-factly, "I will never find cause to raise my hand in combat if you are to be the intended target."

Watson tried his hardest not to be affected by those words, but it was too late. He felt something inside of him helplessly disarm. Clenching his jaw and shaking his head, he propped his cane against the wall and crossed the room, kneeling down in front of Holmes. Watson motioned for him to take his hand away and he obeyed, allowing Watson to inspect the wound. The doctor noticed his patient observing him as he took stock of the injury, but refused to acknowledge the action.

"It will bruise badly," Watson announced, "but nothing was broken."

"You say that like you weren't the fiend who perpetrated this heinous crime."

"Heinous? The welt will last for a few days, a week at most."

"Disfigurement stands as disfigurement, the duration of which is irrelevant."

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose. "How did we even get here?"

"You were infuriated in regard to being in love with me."

It took a second or two for Watson to process what had just been said. He'd heard of criminal acts of a sexual nature, but never once had he considered a scenario in which love existed between two men the way it could between a man and a woman. For Holmes to even suggest such a thing was borderline lunacy.

Regardless of the detective's peculiar phrasing, Watson was all at once reminded of what had brought him here in the first place. Looking down as he stood up, he went to take his leave.

Holmes caught him, very gently, by the wrist.

The tenderness of the contact made Watson take pause. He could feel the soft warmth of Holmes' skin pressing against his own, sending a wave of energy through his arm and body that he didn't dare name. If he had been grabbed harshly again he could have let his training take over, he could have used brute force and gotten away. This touch, this hint of flesh against flesh, was so charged yet so delicate that he was at a loss for how to respond.

He looked up and saw he was facing the door. It would only take a few moments and he would be gone. Safe.

For the sake of Holmes, Mary and himself, he should have moved, but he didn't.

Holmes stood up from his chair, carefully maintaining his hold as he did so. Watson felt his breathing slow and nearly stop. Too afraid to run and too afraid to stay, he was paralyzed with his gaze locked on the one path that could save him. Holmes' chin was now hovering just over his shoulder.

"Watson," he said, fighting to maintain a steady voice, "it is not my place to ask this of you."

"Then," Watson began, words drifting out of him, "why do you have me?"

Holmes bowed his head slightly. "Because I'm waiting for you to ask it of me."

Watson's breath caught as he felt the detective carefully slide their palms together, their fingers naturally interlacing. The doctor swallowed hard as his eyes drifted away from the door.

Slowly, but with a small degree of resolution, he turned towards Holmes. Their hands shifted to accommodate the new position, fitting together almost as if they were clasped in a greeting.

Face to face, the two men studied each other. The look in Holmes' eyes was nothing short of riveted anticipation. Watson unknowingly reflected the expression back to him, matching his intensity. His chest swelled with emotion and, to his sheer and utter amazement, he knew nothing of guilt.

Watson leaned towards him, and Holmes followed. At the last moment, their eyes closed in unison.

Their mouths met gracefully, the pressure mild but decadent as their hands were gingerly caught between their chests. Neither moved, neither explored, they simply tasted. To have Holmes so close, to have their lips pressed together like this, made Watson light-headed, almost dizzy with contentment. In between their bodies, Holmes' thumb moved faintly against Watson's wrist, rubbing with a tender affection that the doctor had known was within him all along, but had never imagined would come to the surface.

There was nothing in the world but this.

The front door opened and the two companions practically leapt apart.

"It's only me!" Mrs. Hudson called. "I'm just leaving a package by the door for you. Do you need anything, Mr. Holmes?"

"That will be all, _nanny_!" Holmes yelled with as much venom as he could muster.

"Oh, you're in a foul one," she retorted loudly. "I'll be on my way then!"

The front door closed with a bang, leaving them alone once again.

Holmes let out a small sigh. "I really must remember to kill that woman."

Watson hadn't heard most of the exchange between the detective and the landlady, his mind was blank. Holmes saw the vacancy written on his face and tried to get himself into Watson's view. Their eyes managed to meet for a moment, but Watson quickly turned away and went to pick up his cane. As he headed for the door, he was stopped by Holmes' voice.

"Feel free to stop by at your convenience tomorrow, if you so choose," the detective offered in a tone laced with the faintest twinge of hope.

Watson looked back over his shoulder. He nodded once, not even sure if he meant it, and was out of the apartment only seconds later.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five:**

-Thirty-two hours later-

Bookshelf.

Window.

Bookshelf.

Window.

Holmes paced steadily back and forth between the two, trying to focus on anything other than the unalterable fact that evening light was spilling into his room and Watson had yet to arrive. Normally he would have occupied his thoughts with the case he'd recently assigned himself, but that enigma was at a stand still until the coroner's results returned with a concrete cause of death.

With no other topic strong enough to draw his attention, his thoughts turned to the events of yesterday. The fact that Watson permitted, and even initiated, the motions that caused their lips to meet meant that this entire predicament might not be quite as irrevocably hopeless as he had once assumed. However, the unmistakable look of abject confusion that had been painted on Watson's face only moments afterward was reason enough to give way to a cynical conclusion. Unless, of course, the expression was merely brought on by the sudden realization that he was going to have to leave a good woman stranded and he was lamenting causing an innocent person emotional discomfort. On the other hand-

Turning to head back towards the bookshelf and his eye caught the lean human frame standing in his doorway. There stood Watson, in his usual coat and hat ensemble, leaning on his cane and observing the detective with an austere, reluctantly curious expression.

Holmes only broke his stride for a moment before continuing on his path to the bookshelf. "Watson, what preferable timing," he said, snatching up the first book he could get his hands on. "I was just about to settle into some more research for the case."

"What sort of research?" Watson asked from the doorway, his flat tone suggesting that he was humoring him under protest.

Holmes glanced at the book's title before humbly replying, "Leaves of Grass."

They shared eye contact for a moment. Watson was not remotely convinced, and Holmes soon looked away, slipping the book back into its place as if the action wouldn't be noticed.

"Once more I failed to hear you arrive," Holmes quipped without thinking, "Are you sincerely positive that you've chosen the correct profession? You would excel at espionage."

"_Holmes_," Watson said, his tone severe.

That was all the detective needed to hear to understand his winsome attitude was not appreciated, but he wasn't entirely sure if his nerves would permit him to accommodate Watson's request for a more pensive atmosphere.

Holmes motioned to the two chairs behind him. "Will you be staying long?"

"I'm not sitting," Watson insisted, "I have questions."

Instead of replying, Holmes had a seat in his favorite chair and politely waited for his friend to continue.

Watson took a few steps into the room. "Why wasn't this place in an upheaval yesterday? If you go more than a few days with no case you start climbing the walls."

"If you returned," Holmes replied, "I didn't want you to think my mental state had deteriorated due to your absence."

"Why?"

"Because it had."

Watson took a moment to let the answer sink in, nodding slightly in acknowledgement as he removed his hat, tossing it onto a nearby table. "I must admit, I'm at a loss for how to phrase the rest."

"If words come from you," Holmes assured him, "I will comprehend their meaning."

The doctor's reaction to that statement was wholly peculiar. A smile tugged at his mouth, only to be straightened out an instant later by a self-imposed return to a sober attitude. Holmes got the distinct impression that he had just told Watson something he already knew. He only wished the moment had lasted long enough for him to properly enjoy it.

Holmes' remark had at least convinced Watson to speak further. "I haven't been able to focus on even the simplest tasks. I've been convinced that everyone I encounter can see into my head." He laughed at his own absurdity. "Am I really so far gone as an individual? For god's sake, when I passed the bakery on the way here and the owner greeted me, I was certain he knew."

"Naturally," Holmes chirped, "he was the first person I told."

"That's not funny, Holmes."

"Your smile implies otherwise."

"I'm not smiling."

"Well, if I'm not funny and you're not smiling, then we really must be in bad sorts."

Watson let his grin expand to a full smile in spite of himself, this time lasting a precious few seconds longer than the last. Holmes let out a miniscule exhale of satisfaction.

"I apologize," the detective said, fondness in his eyes, "I confess that my motive for betraying the weight of this conversation was entirely self-serving."

Watson looked up at him through his eyebrows with sheer disbelief. "How do you remain unaffected by all of this?"

In a rare occurrence, the detective was caught completely off guard. "That question does not come with a rudimentary explanation."

"I need to know," Watson said with simple earnest. "If I am to say anything more I need you to answer me, because one of things I can't bear is seeing you at ease over something this detestable."

It was Holmes who glanced away this time, his nerves giving way to an eerie stillness, a sort of tranquil sense of fear. Apprehension to disclose the truth was not the issue. On the contrary, he greatly wished to respond. He just hadn't been expecting this inquiry to present itself quite so soon, and it took a few moments to gather the wherewithal to answer.

When he was as prepared as he ever would be, Holmes turned to speak, determined to maintain eye contact. "When I was but a youth of sixteen years I noticed, with my already advanced powers of observation, that I lacked the drive to desire physical intimacy with another. For almost a decade I was positive that some sort of physical condition was the culprit, a hormone deficiency or a disease that would cause such an effect, but I came to realize my initial theory had been flawed. To my great discomfort, I began to discover that my hormonal reactions were firmly intact, they simply lacked any inclination towards the female variety. I instead gravitated towards men." He let that sentiment sink in and, as Watson looked away, his voice involuntarily dropped in volume. "I was thoroughly disturbed, even sickened, by this revelation. I refused to accept it as an unchangeable certainty and paid women of loose moral fiber to satiate my desires. They would never succeed, but I kept returning to them with the hope that one night I would be miraculously cured.

"As my situation went on without remedy, my self-loathing reached a low that has not since been matched. I sought out every conceivable way of mistreating myself, be it with alcohol, starvation, or knives to my skin. I never once considered approaching a psychiatric professional. I knew that if I told anyone, even someone I entirely trusted, I would be beaten, locked away, or worse. At the end of a year I was strongly consideringthe noose as a viable option." He shifted his weight as he noted Watson's discomfort at such language. "Then, on an evening that was otherwise unremarkable, I had just arrived at a whore house on the east side when I happened to catch the eye of a customer who was taking his leave. At first I was sure my eyes were playing tricks on me, but when I looked at him for a second time the reality was ultimately confirmed. I saw in his face the identical emotion which I had become accustomed to experiencing when I was exiting such a place. Now that I look back on the instance, he must have seen the expression of dreadful anticipation he no doubt had felt only an hour previous."

Watson's stare shifted back to the detective as his brow furrowed slightly, the story having taken an unexpected turn.

Caught up in the memory, Holmes pressed on. "We didn't speak a word. Never before in my existence had so much been communicated without requiring use of my extensive vocabulary. We acknowledged each other and, compelled by a force which I did not grasp in the slightest, I followed him out of the establishment. We walked together down the streets of London in a most peculiar silence until we happened upon an alley even the rats had deemed unworthy. It was there I had my first experience with buggery."

Watson flinched at the word as it rang through the air. Holmes paused for a moment to catch his breath and regain his equilibrium. He pushed himself into a stance, walking quietly over to the crystal decanter of scotch he always kept on hand. Pouring himself a shallow glass, he tossed the harsh liquid to the back of his throat and set the glass next to the fashionable container. Stable for the time being, he turned to Watson. The doctor had been listening with rapt, wholehearted attention, and such disciplined focus had yet to outwardly falter.

Holmes continued bravely from where he stood. "That night brought about my salvation. I had seen I was not a singular exception to the rule. That, however implausible it may seem, men can seek the affections of other men." Holmes carefully slid his shaking hands into his pockets. "That is why, my dear Watson, this situation between us has not seemed to affect me in the way it has you. That is also why the speed with which we travel, if we travel at all, is entirely in your hands. I hold no right to make demands of you."

Holmes, his speech now complete, bowed his head and accepted the long silence that followed.

It was not common for him to lapse into such long diatribes about his history and, point of fact he had never shared this aspect of his past with another living soul for the sake of his safety. A strange sort of relief took hold of him, and his shoulders eased in a way that suggested he had been holding tension in places he hadn't realized for a very long time.

Stealing a brief glance in Watson's direction, the calm in his body moved aside to make way for the nervous tension he had grown accustomed to hosting over these past two weeks. The doctor had taken to staring at the floor, unmoving, and deep in thought. Holmes didn't dare take any kind of action to rouse Watson from his meditations, so he remained where and how he was until called upon him to do otherwise. To his surprise, Holmes found this sort purgatory of great comfort.

In limbo you have yet to be judged.

After what seemed like hours, but in reality was a handful of minutes, Watson stepped forward. Holmes almost couldn't bear to see such conflict written on a face he cared so deeply for, but didn't voice such a concern. He had spoken enough.

Watson was unsteady to the point of trembling as he looked into Holmes' eyes. "I don't have words," he began, searching for what to say next, "At least that's why my mind would have me believe." He took a moment to rub the space between his eyebrows. "I have committed an act that would see me hang for it, and you describe similar acts as bringing about your salvation. I should report you, turn you in. I should turn myself in." Holmes clenched his jaw at the thought, watching as Watson struggled to control himself. "The acts we have been driven to defy God, law, and country. What would you have me do? You say you make no demands but there you stand waiting for your answer and I'm not even entirely sure what the bloody question is. You say you've committed buggery. If our regard for each other is of the same breed, then why does just the _thought_ of such an act turn my stomach?" Watson's voice was rising without him realizing it. "I'll make no game about it – you are the single most substantial individual in my life, which is exactly what could be causing all this confusion in the first place. Is my emotional attachment to you of such vital importance that it could confuse my physiology? Is that all this is?" Watson slammed the butt of his cane to the floor in frustration. "I'm going back and forth between two realities that are making less and less sense the more I try to sort them out, and what's causing the most confusion is the one certainty I keep coming back to!"

The question was flying out of Holmes' mouth before he had a chance to stop it. "May I inquire as to what that certainty is?"

A second passed, then two more.

When Watson's didn't acknowledge the question, Holmes spoke again. "Did you-"

"Yes, I heard you," Watson interrupted evenly. "I can hear."

As Holmes watched his long time friend and companion work up the will to answer, he was summoning the courage to receive it. They hung in this heightened balance for a few short, harrowing moments. At last, Watson brought his eyes to meet Holmes'.

"My one certainty," he began, his voice low and constricted, "is that I want the opportunity of last afternoon to present itself again."

Holmes' eyes softened as he felt his chest surge with frenetic energy. Watson looked away; it was clear that he was not going to move from his place. The detective took a few cautious steps forward, tilting his head to the side to try and gently regain the eye contact that had been lost. He finally succeeded as he came to a stop in front of Watson and, for the moment, all was still.

Watson's expression was grave, pensive. Holmes could plainly see that the conflict was still alive and strong within the doctor, that even though the words had been uttered, his resolve was not absolute.

Holmes moved to back away, and Watson immediately took a half step forward.

Watson hadn't actually reached to stop Holmes from retreating, but the urge had sparked in his eyes. Yet when Holmes then went to step forward, Watson was seized by the opposite compulsion. Now the detective felt a strong, familiar impulse of his own.

"Should I lie in wait for you in the shadows until your guard is down so I might take you by surprise?" Holmes asked with a straight face.

Watson, in awe of what had just been said, let out the breath he had been holding with pure exasperation. "Your endless capacity for levity at the most inappropriate times is not one of your attractive qualities."

"And yet," Holmes said with mock thoughtfulness, "it's one of your favorites."

"Are you trying to push me into a psychological breakdown?"

"I'm certainly headed for one at this point, and I do enjoy company."

Watson's glare was brutal. "Now is not the time."

"Then perhaps we should revisit my previous suggestion of an ambush."

"Holmes, _kiss me_!"

Both men jumped, startled by the boldness of his words. Watson straightened his posture to try and regain some decorum, but it was too late. Holmes made the final step, took hold of Watson's coat lapels, and pressed their mouths together.

Neither man moved for the first few seconds. Be it from fear, insecurity, or excitement, they remained perfectly still. By honest chance, Holmes' lips moved first, relaxing and then puckering again to settle into a new position. Watson awoke at the movement, and tentatively began to mimic his counterpart. The doctor was highly cautious, but an eagerness to explore was making its way to the surface, and the intoxicating combination caused Holmes' knees weaken considerably. He let his grip on the coat drift down, leaning forward just enough so that their chests slid against each other. Holmes felt Watson's breath hitch as the cane fell to the floor, forgotten before it hit the ground.

Almost delirious as their steady movements held their course, Holmes yearned to reach up, to hold the face of the man that had meant so much for so long. But even now,_ especially_ now, he couldn't risk pushing too quickly. To restrain himself from pursuing such a desire, he indulged in the feel of Watson's delicate, probing kiss and the fire in his stomach that was finally daring to spark.

Then, just as Holmes' need was starting to subside, he felt two slender, capable hands brace themselves against the sides of his face.

Holmes' mouth quivered against Watson's as tears filled his eyes. Letting go of the coat, he wrapped his arms around his companion, pressing their bodies together and deepening the kiss. He delighted at the feel of Watson's mustache scratching gently against him as the fervor was steadily returned.

Their mouths were open and pushing, burning with heat. Struck by an inexplicable surge of bravery, Holmes let his tongue press forward to graze Watson's.

Watson jerked at the contact, moving his hands to Holmes' shoulders to try and push him away, his breathing ragged from the fevered kiss. In the middle of the struggle, their tongues collided again in an explosion of delicious friction, and Watson let out a deep, guttural moan into Holmes' mouth.

Snapping back from the moment of freedom, Watson desperately shoved himself away from the detective. Before Holmes could protest, they were on opposite sides of the room.

Holmes paid no mind to his oxygen-deprived lungs as they cried out for air, and he ignored his racing heart's plea for peace. All his attention, mental or otherwise, was on Watson, who had leant his back up against the closest wall he could find and was now resting his head, staring up at the ceiling. When the doctor's eyes finally drifted down and met Holmes', the understanding was clear.

It was no longer a question of confused physiology.


	6. Chapter Six

**Author's Note: **So, remember back in the A/N for chapter one, when I said I had this planned out over nine chapters? Well now it's turned into eleven chapters. Hopefully this news isn't too awful for you to hear.

Also, this is a stepping stone chapter, but it had to be done. =)

(Oh, and thank you for all the wonderful reviews so far. It's badass to know I'm not the only one having ridiculous amounts of fun.)

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**Chapter Six:**

_--Two weeks, three days later--_

John Watson and Mary Morstan ambled arm in arm along the street on a bright Thursday afternoon, talking quietly in the midst of the moderate crowd. They acknowledged those they made eye contact with, greeting other honorable couples and citizens of London with a humble dignity that was often reflected back to them.

Watson breathed deeply, enjoying the air of the afternoon. He always took pleasure in their walks together, out in the open, chatting about matters ranging from the positively crucial to the utterly trivial. This sort of activity never failed to bring him back to that comforting feeling of being a part of society, of a picture far grander than himself.

He pulled out of his daze to concentrate on his betrothed and her words on being a governess.

"…only took a few minutes of the entire lesson to get the youngest back into good sorts," Mary continued, "which was perfectly understandable, given the nature of her brother's comment on her fascination with the boy who lives across the street. I thought nothing of it until Mrs. Rutherford returned from her brunch. Once she was told of the incident, she pulled me aside for a ten minute lecture on the importance of time management and keeping an orderly classroom in the home. I had to refrain from pointing out that her lecture had lasted longer than the issue itself." Her tone took on a playful edge. "I would never voice such opinions to a public audience, but it is often the parents who require more energy than the children."

"That kind of observation is expected, given the identity of your employer," Watson said with a faint grin.

She couldn't help but smile with him. "You mustn't make such comments of the wealthy if we are to be among them soon."

"I'd be considerably more forgiving if they allowed you more than fifteen minutes to walk with your fiancé."

"I'm simply grateful my fiancé has the fifteen minutes to spare. Building a medical practice is quite the time consuming effort, or has been as of late."

Watson leaned a little more weight on his cane as they walked. "Time consuming?"

"Surely you've noticed that your presence has been ghostly more than a few evenings in recent memory?" Mary teased, warmth in her voice.

Flashes of those certain evenings flickered through Watson's mind and he felt his throat tighten. "Finding a proper location to rent at this time of year is not a task I'd wish on any doctor."

"Are there any decent prospects?" she asked.

_Holmes pressing against him, breathing shallow_.

"There could be," Watson replied, quietly clearing his throat.

Mary nodded politely to a woman passing by. "I hope you can at least make a verbal agreement before the wedding. It would be ideal to come back from the honeymoon with your own practice waiting for you take charge."

_Muscles flexing beneath ruffled clothing._

"Perhaps I should tell landlords that I'm to be wed," he joked absently. "Surely then they'll understand the importance of my venture."

"Those who are married will indeed," she quipped with a light laugh.

_Moaning, teasing, clutching._

Watson felt urgent relief wash over him as he looked up to find they had arrived at the Rutherford's lavish doorstep. They came to a slow stop and Mary turned to face him, unhooking their arms. As she looked up at him with adoring eyes, he realized she was waiting to be asked for her time later in the day.

His lie had not been planned, yet it came readily. "I'm having dinner with a man who may have a lead on a vacant office. May I call on you tomorrow?"

"Certainly," she agreed, only letting her disappointment show for a moment.

He nodded, took her hand, and placed a chaste kiss across her knuckles.

_Rough mouths capturing each other as hands entwine._

Flinching before he could stop himself, panic bolted through him and he released Mary's hand, straightening up as casually as he could manage. If she were to question him about his peculiar reaction, he wasn't sure he'd be able to answer. To his great relief, she looked perfectly content, which meant the movement must have been too small for her to register.

They bid a fond farewell, and then Mary turned and went inside.

Now free to be alone with his thoughts, Watson's memories of the past fortnight ran rampant. His insides twisted to think that pictures so contemptible had plagued him while in the presence of Mary, the one innocent player in all of this. He had told himself that all this deception was to buy time until he could figure out what action he planned to take, but now the wedding date was swiftly approaching, the number of lies was doubling almost by the day, and he was still lost as to what exactly was happening to him.

But Mary was only part of the problem.

Watson made his way down the street, almost afraid to get too close to people should they somehow pick up the blasphemous images that were bearing down on him. Even though he had realized that whatever drew him to Holmes must be part of his nature, it changed nothing about the laws of the country, or the universal truths that he had been raised to believe. This was still abhorrent, still reviled to the point of blind disgust.

At the very least, Watson found solace in the fact that the encounters with Holmes had not escalated. Although, he couldn't deny that certain aspects were…intensifying. Movements had become more forceful, contact more insisting. Something in the back of his mind knew why this was, but he kept pushing it away, fearful of the answer he might uncover even though he was desperate to know what is was. He was headed in a direction that felt both inherently right and wrong at the same time, bringing about a reluctant alacrity in him that was even more confounding than the oxymoronic phrase implied.

All Watson knew for certain was that there was a next step hanging over him, and it required pursuit, however small or big the move might be.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Author's Note: **Ehehehe, so you know how I said there's gonna be eleven chapters now? Ahem, make that _twelve_ chapters now.

But that's it, that's all, chapter twelve will be the last chapter. I swear.

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**Chapter Seven:**

_--Later the same day--_

"Has it always been customary for the Chief of Police to mimic brain patterns identical to the murder victim's?"

Inspector Lestrade was not amused by Holmes' inquiry. The detective sat down in his most adored chair and swung his legs up on the small table in front of it, his pointed stare shooting needles into the man standing before him.

"It was an honest mistake," Lestrade tried to explain for the third time since he'd arrived.

Holmes rested his elbows on the chair's arm rests. "My extremely enviable deductive powers are hired to find solutions to even the most cryptic and laborious enigmas. However, as glorious as the inner workings of my mind have proven to be, even they are rendered ineffective in solving a puzzle when a piece of said puzzle is never presented."

The distant sound of the front door opening kept Lestrade from replying.

When the door closed, Watson's voice followed soon after. "Holmes?"

A part of the detective instinctively relaxed as he called out, "In my room, conversing with a circus primate!"

"Lestrade's visiting again, is he?"

The Inspector glared at Holmes, who simply beamed back at him with a proud smile. Watson entered the room with his usual stride, his coat and hat having already been taken off and hung next to the front door.

"Good evening, Lestrade," Watson greeted. "I take it you've brought some unfavorable news?"

Holmes sat forward on the edge of his seat, speaking with a keen interest that only served to mock. "Yes, Inspector, if you would be so kind as to share the details once more. I'm suffocating with anticipation to hear them again, myself."

Lestrade's scowl lingered on Holmes for a few extra moments before he turned to Watson and explained. "When the body of Mr. Barrington was first attended to by my officers, one of the men noticed a slip of folded parchment on the floor and picked it up to be handed off to the proper authority later. Except that he did not remember to do so until this afternoon."

When Lestrade didn't immediately continue, Holmes prodded him on. "And what, prey tell, was written on this miraculous parchment?"

"It was a note from Mr. Barrington, containing information that he had given his collection of ships to his daughter in Sussex."

"_And_…?"

Lestrade cleared his throat. "And that he wished to take his own life by cyanide consumption."

Watson had to look down to hide his smile.

Holmes slapped his knee and stood up. "In light of the scientifically proven fact that the victim was indeed slain by cyanide, I should venture that it wouldn't take a lobotomized mule, or in this case an inspector, to conclude that the perpetrator of Mr. Barrington's passing was," he paused, then said in a hissed whisper, "_Mister…Barrington_."

By now Watson's shoulders were lightly shaking with silent laughter.

Lestrade picked up his hat. "I came to inform you of this development, and I have done so. Good evening, Holmes. Good evening, Watson."

"I will, of course, still receive my previously arranged fee," Holmes assured the inspector. "You have vehemently wasted my time, and I will waste your money with equal vigor." Lestrade reluctantly nodded and began his escape, but the detective followed him to his doorway. "I believe Gladstone has always wanted to be a police officer, would he be allowed to enlist?" Now Holmes had to yell after him. "Or are you fearful of a dog overtaking your esteemed position too quickly?"

The front door slammed shut with a particularly harsh ardor. Holmes drummed his fingertips on the door frame in agitation. Coincidentally, as he turned to Watson the movement slowed, and then stopped entirely. Although he often experienced this type of inner harmony when he would first rest eyes on the man's bewitching countenance in a private setting, the sensation never failed to exhilarate him.

Holmes then realized that he had come upon a unique quandary. He wanted to greet his companion properly, extend a hand or offer some sort of verbal salutation, but that sort of gesture seemed to lack the appropriate familiarity with which they had become gradually accustomed. Of course, to instigate a welcome that did justice to their new levels of affinity could bring about an undesired communication of assumption or coercion, and this knowledge rendered Holmes momentarily immobilized.

To his sudden awe, the doctor took it upon himself to solve the matter. Stepping forward, Watson carefully took the detective's hand and placed a brief, warm kiss across his knuckles. Holmes' breath escaped him as he was taken by a curious, humble state of wonder. Watson looked up, but did not release his tender grip.

"Good evening, Watson," Holmes whispered.

Each observed the other, wordlessly evaluating with a soft, even stare.

"It struck me," Watson said quietly, "as a suitable action."

The corner of Holmes' mouth twitched with a grin. "Your instinct is exemplary."

A moment of suspended silence passed between them. When it seemed they had both found the answer to their unasked question, there was no more cause for hesitation.

They fell into each other's bodies simultaneously. Holmes wrapped his arms around Watson's neck, bracing a hand on the back of his head as he guided their mouths together. Tongues danced and massaged, aching as if it had been years since the last encounter. Watson hugged the detective to his body, and Holmes drowned in the invigorating feel of the crushing embrace. Holmes' free hand seized and gripped the muscles in Watson's shoulder, moaning with surprised approval when he felt the same treatment unleashed on his back. Losing their balance, they stumbled backward and Holmes found himself pinning Watson to the wall. The impact having broken the kiss, Holmes went to recapture the doctor's mouth, but Watson sharply turned away. Tangled in a mess of limbs, Holmes' brow furrowed as perplexity crept into Watson's stare. Whatever gave the doctor pause was evidently not something to which words easily lent themselves. Compromising position aside, Holmes waited dutifully, keenly aware of their close proximity and exercising his well developed capacity for self restraint.

Watson breathed, his mind working. "Holmes…I don't…"

"If it is distance you require…" Holmes trailed off as he started to push himself from the wall.

"No," Watson insisted, pulling him close, "I need this."

Holmes searched the other man's eyes, and what he discovered there caused his heart to swiftly ascend into his trachea. The clear and undiluted desire radiating back at him was enough to threaten the stability of his legs, and it did just that to a magnificent extent.

Maintaining Watson's gaze, Holmes silently moved a hand between them. When he felt the tough leather of the doctor's belt, his nimble fingers made quick work of the buckle. Alarm suddenly streaked over Watson's face as he grabbed Holmes' wrist. Now the detective was thoroughly confounded.

Then, almost as if telepathy had thought to grace them with its presence, Holmes was struck with certain clarity.

Whatever the action taken, it had to be accomplished with clothing in place.

"How is this…?" Watson began hesitantly, loathe to admit his own naïve ignorance, "…gone about?"

Holmes cocked his head to the side. "You mean to tell me you've never pursued such endeavors before?"

"Not with anyone so ill-equipped," Watson fired back.

"Watson," the detective said, taken back by the unexpected retort, "was that levity at an inappropriate time?"

"Do you want me to change my mind about this?"

"I shall find myself severely incapacitated if you should."

"Then tell me what I bloody have to do!"

Holmes shifted, positioning himself between Watson's legs. "Before I can properly instruct, I have an inquiry of a delicate nature that must be put forth."

Watson narrowed his eyes. "Are you really asking if I'll answer a personal question while you have me pinned to a wall?"

"I wouldn't want to offend."

Watson let out a short, agitated exhale. "You may ask."

"Have you made use of a whore house?"

"Yes," Watson answered directly.

"Wonderful, then this will be made considerably easier to achieve." Holmes braced his hands against the wall at either side of the doctor's head. "The rhythm is very much akin to one utilized in a whore house. Take hold of my waist."

Watson did as instructed, and Holmes provided an example by slowly thrusting against him. The sensation wrought from such friction made them both shudder visibly. Watson only seemed uncomfortable for the briefest of moments.

"Once rhythm is established," Holmes continued, his breathing a touch more labored than before, "the rest falls into place."

Taking initiative, Watson leaned his forehead against the detective's, solidified his grip, and pressed his hips up and forward. Holmes met the movement with a thrust of his own, moaning through gritted teeth.

"Watson," he gasped, "you are a most singular pupil."

They continued pressing against each other gradually, deliberately. Fabric rubbed fabric as the buck and writhe of their motions sent waves of arousal pulsing through Holmes' body. Stiffening against Watson's hip, he dropped his head to the doctor's shoulder, panting. Lust battled with disbelief as they moved in time with each other, and soon Holmes felt a similar pressure digging into him as well. His hardness began to throb, sliding along side Watson's, causing a wicked euphoria and demanding more immediate action.

The contact was maddeningly dull, forcing them to work harder for their pleasure. They only slipped out of synch once or twice before settling into a solid cadence. Watson's heaving breath spilled over Holmes' ear and neck, driving the detective to quicken his thrusts without realizing. Eagerly matching the increasing speed, Watson's grip remained firm and steadfast. Holmes grunted with effort as he the pressure building deep inside of him, pushing closer and closer to the edge with every passing second. Watson moved his hands to Holmes' back, pulling them closer together to increase the pressure as their thrusting turned desperate, reckless. On the brink, Holmes lifted his head and stole the kiss he had been denied earlier, tongues and teeth colliding in a mess of passion. The new stimulation was too much, and they exclaimed into each other's mouths as they came. Holmes turned his head, gasping for air as an orgasm clamped down on his entire body, their motions now furious and driving. Watson threw his head back against the wall, jaw clenched in gorgeous agony. In a flurry of movement they rode through their climaxes. Finally spent, they sagged against the wall with great relief.

Their breathing was mutually loud and harsh for a considerable period of time, after which Holmes became aware that the side of his face was pressed against Watson's and he was staring at a wall from point blank range. Pulling back, Holmes was now able to look the other man clear in the face.

Tentatively, _very_ tentatively, Holmes leaned forward. Watson met him halfway, and their unmoving lips met for a few delicate moments. When their lips parted, he could see in the doctor's eyes that no security had been found, no lucidity embraced, but deep in those hazel irises something had been satiated, solidified.

Holmes carefully extricated himself from their convoluted position and stepped back to allow breathing room for both of them. Leaning away from the wall, Watson straightened his rumpled jacket, trying to reinstall decorum to his appearance, when he noticed the stain that now marred his trousers. The doctor's cheeks flushed red. Holmes tried his damndest not to find the instance so incredibly endearing, but failed miserably.

Making a sound in his throat, Holmes said, "The bathroom is, of course, yours to make use of. I've found the dedicated use of soap and water a necessity."

Watson glanced up for a moment, his blush only beginning to fade. "Shouldn't you tend to your clothes as well?" he asked, clearly shocked that he was saying such words.

"I have an entire wardrobe at my disposal, my laundry is not a priority," Holmes replied kindly. He was completely unable to hide his amusement at the surreal conversation.

Watson started for the door, pausing as an idea seemed to strike him. Holmes watched as Watson turned the thought over in his head, examining it thoroughly. The detective knew precisely what Watson must be considering, for the same notion had tickled his imagination when he had given his brief instructional lecture a few scant minutes ago. Thankfully, this time Holmes was able to render his vocal chords motionless, allowing Watson to arrive at his own conclusion.

At last, Watson made eye contact. "You don't have to wait to remedy your clothes," he stated decisively.

Holmes looked startled as he stepped forward and stood in front of the doctor. "Two gentlemen in the same room without their trousers firmly in place? Your frequent tendency for profane activity is becoming frightfully worrisome." Watson narrowed his eyes in a warning glare, and Holmes calmly reached out with one hand, adjusting the man's tie. "Whatever brings you comfort."

Holmes led the way to the bathroom.

Watson was the one to close the door behind them when they arrive at their destination. Holmes made his way over to the pitcher and basin near the bathtub, relieved to find the former still full of water. He filled the basin with the cool liquid, set the pitcher aside, and snatched the bar of soap from its holder. Turning to Watson, who was standing quietly, he raised his eyebrows to ask who should have the pleasure of disrobing first. When Holmes saw the downright shaky expression on his counterpart, he knew that it was up to him take the lead. Tossing the soap in the basin, he set about undoing his belt buckle.

When the decision that this event occur had first been made, Holmes' initial instinct was to take his time, ease into it for the sake of Watson's justifiable hesitance. After only a few short seconds of rumination he changed his mind. Watson would be much better suited and feel infinitely more at ease if this were handled without pomp and circumstance adding undue pressure to the both of them.

Still, this train of thought did not keep Holmes from holding his breath as he pulled his trousers and underpants down and off in one fell swoop.

Determined to remain casual, Holmes continued his business as if nothing remotely monumental was taking place. Separating the two garments, he placed his trousers to the side while he tended to his underpants. To do this he had to turn his back to Watson and, even though Holmes was of the opinion that his hind parts were nothing to feel embarrassed over, a pang of self-consciousness stabbed him in the gut. He was eternally thankful when Watson decided to break the silence.

"Have you ever done this before?" the doctor asked, his voice slightly and curiously hoarse.

Holmes glanced over his shoulder, pretending not to notice Watson's wandering eye as he rubbed the soap into the stained area of his pants. "Are you referring to the washing or the unveiling?"

Watson snapped his focus back up to Holmes' face. "The unveiling."

"There are a great many things I have yet to indulge in," Holmes replied, turning his attention back to his work, "and, until very recently, this particular action was indeed on that list."

"How many opportunities have you had for," Watson had to force the word out, "buggery?"

"Is there an aspect of exposed flesh that brings out the inquirer in you, Watson?" Holmes teased as he switched out the clean underpants for the dirty trousers.

"It's helping me keep hold of my wits, yes."

"Well, we wouldn't want you to let go of those."

"Answer the question," Watson insisted.

Holmes smiled at his companion's authoritative tone. "Over the course of so many years it's difficult to provide an exact number, but I should imagine the final estimate to land somewhere between seven and ten individuals, only one of whom I had occasion to meet more than once."

Watson shifted his position. "And this bears no weight on your conscience?"

Holmes' halted his movements. Watson possessed an innate knack for throwing him off guard at the most peculiar times, and this instance was no different.

Pressing forward, Holmes continued washing. "It has taken me the span of two decades to stop questioning the morality of my inherent traits."

"Those experiences led you to that conclusion?"

Holmes decided the underpants were clean enough and shook them out, pulling them back over his legs. He was blatantly avoiding the question posed to him, and he foolishly clung to the unlikely fantasy that his tactic would succeed.

A few moments later he was fully dressed and motioning to the basin. Watson was still in the same place across the room, only now he had his arms folded across his chest and an assertive look upon his face. The doctor would obviously not be satisfied with silence as a response and, given the situation, he had every right to require such information. Holmes picked up a towel from the edge of the bathtub and started drying his hands to hide his nerves.

"Those were brief encounters," Holmes disclosed, "no names were exchanged or details given, and the meetings existed solely for the purpose of physical relief. It was not they who put my mind to rest."

He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.

Watson accepted the weight of the admission with a great deal more tranquility than he could have anticipated, but there remained a part of him that was suitably unnerved. Holmes began to feel as if he was an intruder in his own lavatory.

The detective gestured to the door. "Your privacy has every right to be reclaimed."

Watson's eyes flickered towards the exit, then back to Holmes. "Stay," he said in a not entirely convincing tone.

"You are not held by any obligatory reimbursement-"

"I know."

Holmes considered taking his leave anyway, but the newfound resolution in Watson's stare convinced him otherwise. He moved aside, and Watson approached the basin. Holmes maintained his eye level at a respectable height as Watson disrobed, but he couldn't manage to restrain himself from wringing the towel in his hands as he did so.

Now exposed from the waist down, Watson faced the basin and set about cleaning his trousers and underpants, his movements carrying a subtle, but very present, air of nervous tension. Oddly enough, when Holmes' eyes did stray downward, the first thing he took note of was the doctor's scar on his inner right thigh. It was undoubtedly the wound he'd earned in the war that required a cane to support, and its physical attributes did nothing to belie the substantial damages it had caused. Just from the brief instant that Holmes allowed himself to behold the scar, he surmised that it was six inches in length, two and a half in width, and near the bottom it started to wrap around to the back of his leg.

"You never mentioned your battle wound being so significant," Holmes observed.

Watson's scrubbing quickened. "I don't consider myself a prideful man, but I do posses an ego and you mentioning my scar first when I'm bare and under your scrutiny does not help to soothe it."

"Oh, yes, I do beg your pardon," Holmes prepared himself to try again. "Good heavens, Watson, why do you bother with the use of a cane?"

Watson's laughter only escaped from him for a second before he reeled it in, but he couldn't get rid of his smile quite as easily. Dipping his fingers in the basin, he flicked the water at Holmes before going on about his task.

Holmes took his time, dabbing his face with the towel as he stood up and began to walk idly about the room. Finding himself in a choice position, Holmes wound up the cloth with his hands and snapped it directly on Watson's left butt cheek without breaking his stride. The doctor jumped at the mild pain and froze. Holmes continued on his journey around the room, his attention purposefully elsewhere. When seconds passed and no retaliation came, Holmes allowed himself a small smirk of victory.

And then a pair of wet trousers landed promptly on his head.

Holmes ceased his walk and removed the garment, his expression nothing short of dignified. "How kind of you, Watson, I am in need of another pair of daily trousers."

Watson's triumphant expression fell instantly. "Holmes," he swore, slowly moving towards him, "That was fair play. Give them back."

"I always fancied this color," Holmes mused as he coyly stepped out of the doctor's reach.

"You're taunting a wounded war veteran."

"Wounded? I thought you wanted to discuss your cane."

Watson dove for his trousers and managed to grab hold of a pant leg before Holmes could pull away. Caught in a rough game of tug-of-war, Watson launched another attack and this time succeeded in tackling Holmes to the ground. They rolled and tumbled back and forth, grappling for dominance and insisting the fight was deadly serious in spite of their occasional bouts of laughter.

A keen sucker punch named Watson the victor, and he stood up with the prize in-hand. Gasping for air, Holmes rolled onto his back and propped himself up with his elbows. "The match was hardly even, you're of military breeding."

Watson scoffed. "What of that cunning martial art you use whenever you get the chance?"

"I never apply advanced techniques when my opponent is so notably vulnerable."

Watson was lost at first, then mildly abashed to find that he was still on a most intimate display.

He instinctively covered himself with his trousers. "They should be clean now," he said with a cough, turning and snatching his underpants to get dressed.

Holmes remained where he was for a few moments, allowing himself to contemplate the vision before him. He was struck by the eccentric sort of perfection he found in being able to watch Watson dress himself. It was a liberty he had never fathomed would move him so, yet as surely as he was lying on the ground, he was taking great enjoyment in nothing more than observing as the doctor tended to his needs. Even more peculiar, the draw to this moment was not encouraged by any wanting of the physical nature. That's not to say this sort of reaction was all together uncommon when Holmes looked on the other man, but it was not one he imagined to experience, given the current circumstances.

"Would you care to stay?" Holmes asked suddenly, surprising even himself with the question.

Watson, now dressed, sat down to put on his shoes, arching an eyebrow in the detective's direction. "Do you mean stay the night?"

Holmes did his best to sound casual. "The hour is late, and the majority of my wardrobe rightfully belongs to you…"

"I can't," Watson replied, growing solemn. "I couldn't possibly."

Holmes sat up farther so he could lean on his hands. "I'm not suggesting anything of lewd character."

Watson shook his head. "I can't risk Mary discovering my whereabouts of the past month."

The mention of her name resulted in an inescapable end of the discussion. Having finished with his shoes, Watson stood and went to the door.

"Right, of course," Holmes agreed as he pushed himself up from the floor. "I've no fathomable reason why the scenario even came to mind."

Watson gently opened the door, turned back to Holmes, and they reluctantly traded knowing glances. Telepathy was painfully absent at this moment, but Holmes still managed to glean the impression that Watson was not departing by choice.

This fact would be of small solace when he was alone a few seconds later.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Author's Note: **Sorry it took a while to get this one up. There was a day I had writer's block, a day I had a constant head ache, you know how it goes. Chapter 9 should be right behind this one, though, 'cause it just has to be looked over by my amazing incredibeta.

Enjoy. =)

* * *

**Chapter Eight:**

--_Four days later_--

_Darkness. All around you is darkness. A sound beckons, though it comes from no direction. A light flickers, though it is not visible. A hand grabs, though belongs to no one. You are dragged by the core. No heat. No life. Only surviving. Alive._

_You blaze ahead in search of truth. You blaze ahead to grasp the truth. You blaze ahead and free the truth._

_Truth divides._

_Color. All around you is color. A sound beckons…it comes from the left. A light flickers…it blinds your eyes. A hand grabs…it is the divine. You are touched to the core. So warm. So aware. Only condemned. Fallen._

Watson was brought into consciousness by a gentle touch. His eyes fluttered open to behold Holmes sitting next to him with an unmistakably amused expression. He was startled for a moment, then remembered the events prior to his awakening and let out a brief sigh.

"Should I perceive this as a belated acceptance to my previous request?" Holmes asked with the faintest of grins.

Watson rubbed his eyes. "If it was, this would be a slightly odd way to go about it."

"Point acknowledged," Holmes said matter-of-factly. "You arrive to find me absent and proceed to make use of my pallet. Tell me, Watson, are you aware of a story involving three bears and a tiny blonde girl? You haven't eaten all my porridge, have you?"

Watson sat up to get his bearings. "I only laid down to try and find out why you haven't bought a proper bed yet."

"From the sound of your cacophonous snoring I should venture you found it."

"I do not snore," Watson defended, "_You_ snore."

Holmes stood up from the floor and offered his hand. "I'm afraid I am completely ignorant as to what you are referring."

Watson looked up at him. "I had to buy two extra pillows to cover my ears with at night just for the chance of sleeping through all the noise."

"I was afflicted with a sinus infection and you have a distinct flare for melodrama. Now are you going to accept my help or have you volunteered to act as my new foot stool?"

Glaring with feigned austerity, Watson took the outstretched hand and let Holmes pull him to his feet. He felt his injured leg give a little and he leaned on Holmes for support.

With the extra contact came a flood of memories.

Watson's pulse quickened, the blood rushing to his head. As he clasped the detective's hand, meeting the inviting brown eyes with his own, it seemed almost farcical that he could have forgotten what had brought him here. Every single one of the familiar battling emotions rose up in his chest and, for a brief instant, they robbed his ability to speak.

Holmes watched all of this, relief welling up in his eyes. "There you are," he breathed, "for a moment I'd thought you left me."

Watson swallowed hard, torn between stepping away for comfort and moving in closer for the same reason. Holmes decided for him, pulling back to allow space between them as he looked away.

At the last second, Watson tightened his hold, causing Holmes' focus to snap back to the doctor. There it was again, buzzing through his veins. That drive, that _need_ which consumed him with as much trepidation as it did excitement had returned with terrific vigor.

Watson let go at last, but he didn't move. He watched his timid hand as it carefully slid up and over Holmes' chest, coming to a rest between the neck and shoulder. Watson drew himself to Holmes, and they met in a gradual, penetrative kiss.

Holmes helplessly dissolved into the fragile rhythm, splaying his hands across Watson's lower back and pulling their waists together. Bringing his free hand to the side of Holmes' face, Watson trembled from the almost painfully slow motions of their mouths. He softly rocked his body forward and their torsos pressed against each other, swaying slightly from the shift in balance. Holmes' lips drifted then, straying from their main purpose and trailing over Watson's jaw line.

A calm shockwave swept over Watson's skin as Holmes began decadent, deliberate work on the flesh of his neck. One hand drifting into Holmes' hair, Watson gripped and released, his breaths long and shaky.

Holmes straightened up just enough so that he could speak into Watson's ear. "Would you mind," he murmured, "if I proposed a suggestion?"

Watson's voice was dry, uneven. "No."

Holmes reached up and took the hand from behind his head. "Please follow me."

Watson allowed himself to be led, in too much of a trance to realize where he was headed. When he blinked out of the daze and his thoughts returned, he found himself in the loo. He looked around, having no clue as to what was happening until Holmes closed the door and went to the bathtub, twisting the handle to start the water flow. Liquid splashed into the old, cracked claw foot tub, and the muscles along Watson's spine tensed at the sound. He now knew what was being asked of him.

Holmes slid his hands into his pockets, turning to face Watson. "If this is too bold, it can be easily ended."

Watson's eyes traveled from Holmes to the bathtub, then back again. In the far reaches of his mind he could faintly hear urgent threats and warnings, and deep in some part of him he knew he should listen. But when he looked at Holmes, when he felt that impulse, he couldn't be deterred.

Watson took off his jacket.

As he worked on undoing his vest, he could see by the look of undiluted awe on Holmes' face that a positive answer hadn't necessarily been expected. Watson slid his vest off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground, the soft sound bringing the detective back to life.

Holmes soon followed suit, and they disrobed quietly. Watson's hands shook as he lifted his shirt over his head and it joined his vest and jacket on the floor. By the time all that remained on the men were their underpants, Watson thought his heart might beat right out of his chest.

A few simple seconds later, they stood bare in front of each other.

In the past few weeks they had seen, touched, and rubbed, but nothing could compare to the surge of energy that overtook them in that moment. Neither dared to move.

Momentarily paralyzed for whatever reason, Watson let his eyes roam over the man in front of him. Holmes seemed to be touched by self-consciousness, averting his gaze every now and then in an attempt to escape the tension. Seeing this, and knowing that even Holmes was at odds allowed him to breathe a little easier, if only for an instant.

The tub had filled, and Holmes turned, cutting off the water flow. When they made eye contact again, Holmes had reclaimed his fortitude. Offering his hand for the second time that evening, he waited for a response.

Watson stepped forward, reached out, and Holmes pulled him into a firm embrace. The feel of naked skin pressed to naked skin forced a gasp out of Watson as Holmes held him tight, tighter. For a fleeting moment panic flared in Watson's gut and his arms moved to push himself away, but a reassuring hand from Holmes on the back of his head quelled any anxiety that threatened to tear him out of the moment.

After what must have been a solid minute, they stepped back from each other. Holmes took hold of the bathtub and stepped into the water, settling his back up against one end. Holding his breath, Watson did the same, leaning his back up against the other end and drawing his knees up so they could have proper room.

The warm water swirled from the movement, and soon stilled. They stared at each other, seeming to expect something to happen even though they were both absolutely inert. In the dense quiet, all Watson could hear were his warring thoughts echoing off the walls, dragging him back and forth from one conclusion to another. Try as he might, he could not persuade his mind to rest.

Watson spoke mainly as a means to break the silence. "Would you mind saying something?"

Holmes lifted his arms out of the water and rested them on the edges of the tub. "Did you have a specific phrase to request, or will any combination of verbs and nouns be suitable?"

Watson decided quickly. "Any combination."

Holmes looked around the room as he blew air between his lips. "My shrewd tendencies are preventing me from considering a subject that wouldn't result in you fleeing from this bath. Would it be too laborious to decide on a topic?"

"What would cause me to flee from this bath?" Watson wondered aloud.

"At this moment? Any number of things, I should imagine. Improper word choice, being reminded of exactly where you are and what actions you have decided to partake, my leg accidentally brushing yours…"

"You're right; I do want to leave now."

Holmes tilted his head. "I thought you appreciated my charmingly impetuous banter?"

"I thought you were capable of handling this situation with its due sincerity?"

"What on earth gave you that impression?"

"I've no idea."

There was no outward sign of enjoyment; such an indication was hardly necessary.

Silence reclaimed the room.

Left with only his thoughts, a particularly specific image crept into Watson's mind. Looking away, he tried to push the concept out, ignore it until he could busy his thinking with something – anything – else.

Before he could succeed, Holmes spoke up, "I will not refuse."

Watson came back down to reality. "I'm sorry?"

"Whatever scheme you're attempting to rationalize yourself out of executing," Holmes clarified, "I will not refuse."

"How could you know of any scheme?" Watson asked honestly.

Holmes had to smile. "I have had the privilege of being in your company more times than can be counted. You may trust that I can distinguish the instances where your mind is engaged in a challenging decision and when it is at true relaxation." His eyes shined. "If you wish something of me, you need only make me aware."

Watson arrived at a conclusion far more swiftly than he would have anticipated. "I was debating changing my position."

"This is somewhat of an extraordinary time to be contemplating your political stance."

"In the _tub_."

"Oh, well that makes a great deal more sense."

Watson glared; Holmes beamed.

With an air of the utmost defiance, Watson sat up from his place, turned around, and slapped his back against Holmes' chest, his abrupt movement sending water sloshing onto the floor. Watson maintained a stern outlook with his head leaning back on Holmes' left shoulder, eyes to the ceiling. His expression only changed when he felt something slick slide across his chest without warning. Starting at the sensation, he looked down to find soap being guided over his skin by an all-too-familiar right hand.

"I thought your soiled attitude could stand a collision with cleanliness," Holmes said, his tone docile.

All at once, Watson became unbearably cognizant of the position he had gotten himself into. He felt his shoulders resting against smooth pectorals, his spine running down the length of a soft, sculpted stomach. Somewhere in all of the business, Watson's hands had come to rest on Holmes' legs. He turned his head to the right to find the side of Holmes' face bent down to keep an eye on his handiwork. When Watson expected to bolt upright, he felt himself sink further into Holmes' body, heated water lapping up against the top of his ribcage. Holmes' cleansing was deep, thorough, almost a massage.

Words floated out of Watson. "When did you first take notice of me?"

Holmes kept his voice low. "I'm going to assume you're not speaking of when I first noticed you as a worthy associate, but to justify one I must explain the other." He drew in a solid breath, Watson rising and falling with the motion. "When we first began working together, I saw the potential of us becoming a formidable pair. Despite the many discrepancies that one is bound to uncover when comparing our individual characteristics, we are of like minds, you and I. Your assistance was of tremendous value on cases, and your company has been of the only variety I have ever absolutely appreciated." Holmes' hand came to an eventual resting placed. "But I suppose I didn't truly notice you until one month after we began sharing a residence. I was practicing a concerto on my violin at four o'clock on a Saturday morning when you came into my room looking fiercely put out. I asked what was wrong with a little violin and you said 'A violin I can handle, Holmes, but dying cats are another matter entirely.' You then proceeded to wrestle the bow out of my hand and stormed out." Watson scoffed fondly, and Holmes continued, his tone now laced with nostalgia. "To this day I can't pin point precisely what about that occurrence triggered such a reaction, but ever since then I have nursed the foolish aspiration that something similar to this very night should come to pass."

"That was the better part of a year ago," Watson observed, scowling lightly.

Holmes set the soap aside and began scooping water on Watson's chest to wash away the residue. "So it was."

Watson stopped him, covering Holmes' hand with his own. They stayed like this for a long while, their breathing in tandem, and their bodies still.

Lulled into a near hypnotic state, Watson relived the incident in his mind. He could recall the immense irritation, the pure sense of chagrin he had felt that morning when he was roused by the loud, harmonious wails of Holmes' violin. In actuality, the detective's playing was quite pleasant; likening it to dying cats was hardly fair. The hour at which Holmes decided to hone his craft had been the only issue, and Watson was admittedly short-tempered if circumstances interrupted his sleep. He tried to reason why that memory, out of so many they had made together, would give someone cause to notice a person in a different light, especially when the new perspective was so far outside normal parameters. Come to think of it, Holmes' behavior hadn't even indicated anything of significant importance being discovered; he didn't even put up much of a struggle when Watson seized the violin.

Watson's head lifted slightly at that thought. Perhaps he'd been too quick to dismiss Holmes' reaction from that night. Whenever Holmes' violin was involved, the idea of 'excessive force' was nonexistent if it meant protecting the instrument or keeping it in his possession. But Watson distinctly remembered the fight for the violin being of small consequence. Could that instant truly be explained by the revelation Holmes confessed to bearing during that brief encounter? Watson began searching all of the past experiences with Holmes that he could think of: the rooms catching on fire, bickering over stolen clothing, Gladstone's numerous mistreatments. All of which he had gone over before in search of indications of his telling signs, but he hadn't thought to examine Holmes' behavior until now. Tiny things, little revealing happenings, flickered across Watson's memory, and there were so many of them that the magnitude and implication could not be ignored. Holmes had honestly carried a unique opinion of Watson through the span of nearly twelve months. These recent events could have unfolded at any time, but Holmes had stayed silent, doing his absolute best to spare them of the dangerous conflict they were now a part of. The amount of loyalty and compelled determination required to keep such a secret was nothing short of staggering, and Holmes had endured this all on Watson's behalf. Even to this night, Holmes had made no complaints.

Watson moved slowly, the motivation to act quieting any other disturbance in his mind. Turning to Holmes, he closed his eyes and pressed their mouths together. Their hands remained in place as they mingled carefully, kindly. To their mutual disbelief, Watson didn't shy away when their tongues accidentally brushed each other. Instead, he encouraged the contact, probing forward, searching for more. Holmes tilted his head, the new angle allowing him to meet Watson's advances with a piercing kiss of his own. The further depth elicited a small moan from Watson as his heart skipped a beat. He pushed a little harder into Holmes' mouth, tension building in his muscles. Holmes met the strength evenly, craning his neck to explore all that Watson could offer. The water moved with them as Watson grasped Holmes' hand, struggling to hold onto his last shred of composure.

Watson leaned back from the kiss, their lips hovering mere centimeters apart. "_Holmes_."

Holmes' mouth grazed Watson's as he replied, "I am at a loss for action without your instruction."

Gulping down air, Watson summoned his nerve. He slowly began to guide Holmes' hand down over his chest…his ribs…his stomach.

Now within reach, Holmes took an easy hold of Watson's shaft. Watson shuddered, hardening quickly. With his other hand, Holmes reached for the soap and began to work it in his palm, coating his skin with a thick lubricant before putting it back. He shifted them both, trading his rough touch for the slick. Watson let out a heaving moan as Holmes slid over him with slippery ease, teasing and rubbing to a deliriously intoxicating effect. Reaching up, Watson braced a hand on the back of the man's neck, arching his back into the pleasure. Holmes leaned his arm on the side of the tub for a better advantage, now gripping and pumping with a steady rhythm. Writhing at the wicked touch, water splattered onto Watson's chest, threatening to splash over the sides. Holmes picked up his pace, and the arm Watson had reaching behind him was quickly slapped down, his palm landing on the back of Holmes' free hand. He interlaced their fingers and they both gripped with an insistent fervor. Holmes buried his face into Watson's neck, his hand sliding faster, clenching harder. Watson stifled a raspy cry of ecstasy as he came, the all-consuming sensation unrelenting in its crushing force. Holmes' pace never faltered, coaxing every spasm and gasp he could wrench from Watson's trembling body until the wave of rapture had finally passed.

Watson's chest heaved as the world slowly started returning to him. He only allowed himself a brief moment's rest before hauling himself out of the spoiled water. Holmes stood up after him, quick to offer support when the doctor's legs buckled. Watson climbed out of the tub and collapsed into the nearest chair he could find as Holmes followed, grabbing a towel and tossing it in Watson's direction before finding one of his own. They covered themselves, mostly out of habit, and Watson felt something devious start to sink into his mind. Holmes reached into the tub to pull out the drain plug.

His wits barely collected, Watson sat forward. "Would you mind terribly if I reciprocated?"

Holmes was so startled he nearly fell in the tub. "Watson!" He yanked out the plug and turned to the doctor. "The last thing I imagined to hear from you was witticism."

"I'm not joking," Watson promised, thinking for a second. "Although, I do admit the phrasing was intended to throw you."

Watson watched knowingly as Holmes glanced down in a failed attempt to try and keep his enthusiasm from bubbling to the surface. When their eyes met again, Holmes' stare still glinted with playfulness, but now an undercurrent of gravity was coursing beneath.

"The hour is late," Holmes pointed out, "Needn't you depart?"

Watson's face fell slightly as his frisky demeanor faltered. It had already been of a considerably late hour when he arrived, and now it was certain to be the dead of night. He would have to leave now if he wanted to be home before the streets turned unsavory, which meant that if he stayed any longer he would be sleeping here. The thought of the latter result made his stomach churn, but he was shocked to find that the sensation was not wrought from an all together unpleasant feeling.

Watson took a deep breath, the offer jumping out of him before he could think twice. "I could always elect to stay until the morning."

Holmes' entire body language softened. "When did you decide this?"

"Twenty seconds ago," Watson admitted, "And this isn't an arrangement involving-"

"No, no, definitely not. Unfathomable."

Giving Holmes a wry look, Watson lifted himself out of the chair, tying the towel around his waist. Holmes stood, watching curiously, as Watson crossed the small room and gave him a purposeful kiss, the kind meant to incite more than satisfy.

Holmes was a look of bewilderment. "I wonder what has seen fit to possess you," he thought aloud.

Watson's expression darkened, his brow furrowed. "I don't know."

The honesty in the statement made them both take pause. For a second time that evening, the emotions that had plagued him for the past month were starting to cloud Watson's mind, and he glanced away. He couldn't stand the thought of enduring such duality again, not yet. He needed time and, if he could just hold on to a few minutes of even the illusion of peace, he was certain he could find some clarity.

Grabbing Holmes by the neck, Watson forced their mouths together.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine:**

--_The following morning_--

Holmes sat on the floor of his room in a meditative pose, eyes closed. He had read of this relaxation technique quite a while ago, but had never seen fit to implement the method until this very hour. The reasoning behind this sudden foray into Eastern practices was exclusively for the betterment of his spine which, as of late, had endured a night of crooked torture curled up in his favorite chair. Upon waking, the detective was undoubtedly certain that, if he did not spend at least fifteen minutes sitting next to a particular doctor who was making use of his pallet, he would surely suffer terrific agony.

His right eye opened just enough to fixate on the man in front of him, then swiftly shut closed when he saw Watson shift and move in a way that indicated he was rising to greet the day. Holmes held his position and deepened his breathing, all for the sake of his feeble, strained spinal cord.

In the self-created darkness, he heard Watson's groggy voice. "Holmes? Do I even want to know what you're doing?"

"Ah, Watson," Holmes greeted him in an innocently surprised tone. "Please, pay no mind, I am merely utilizing an ancient form of stress alleviation."

"Does it work?" Watson asked, smothering a yawn.

"Not when there are such stirring recent memories demanding my attention." Holmes ignored Watson's sly eye roll. "But otherwise I should think it would be a highly useful endeavor to pursue on a regular basis. If I was the type of personality to follow things on a consistent level, I would be ferociously excited."

"That's exactly the type of personality you are."

"Well then, I'm ferociously excited." Holmes peeked at the man before him. "Good morning, Watson."

"Good morning, Holmes."

Watson sat up in his shirt and underpants, his eyes adjusting to the light that streamed in from the windows. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Judging from the way the light has changed," Holmes contemplated, allowing himself to gaze fully upon Watson, "I would say approximately an hour."

"Is that common for this kind of thing?"

Holmes' smile was kept completely interior. "I don't believe so."

"Then, since I have awakened to find you in an appropriately distinctive position and allowed you to uphold your reputation as an eccentric, might you relax?"

Now Holmes' smile was rising to the exterior. "Your powers of deductive reasoning are coming along quite nicely."

The detective broke free from his rigid posture and, without a word, moved around until his head was resting on Watson's lap.

"Wait," Watson protested, "what are you doing now?"

"Upholding my reputation as an eccentric," Holmes answered calmly, curling up on his side.

Watson sighed, but the affection in the exhale was inescapably apparent. "What if I want breakfast?"

"Then you'll have to disturb me."

"You're disturbed enough."

Holmes looked up. "Is that wordplay? At this hour?" He snuggled in closer to the doctor. "I'm taken back by your behavior this morning, Watson. It normally takes you at least until the afternoon to keep up with my mental capacities."

Watson slapped Holmes on the ear, the latter jerking up into a sitting position. Holmes held the side of his face, giving Watson an angelically inquisitive expression.

"I'm hungry," Watson stressed, obviously proud of his actions.

"If you insist."

Leaning forward, Holmes gave Watson a long, yet entirely chaste, kiss on the mouth. When he pulled away, he let himself hover so that their noses were nearly touching. There was a new air about the room, a charged atmosphere that always saw fit to settle down on the pair whenever happenings like this deigned to occur. Holmes had become rather fond of the odd ambience, and he wondered if Watson had ever noticed it.

"That's not what I meant," Watson said, his voice now distinctively lower than before.

"My apologies," Holmes replied, "I hadn't felt properly reassured that such a maneuver wouldn't result in abject bedlam until recently."

Watson's sigh of exasperation was slower this time. Holmes couldn't help but be pleased with himself as Watson drifted forward to meet his lips. Just as their mouths ghosted over each other, the doorbell rang loudly and jarred them both out of their respective trances. Watson's eyes went wide as he looked down, gawking at his blatantly unsuitable attire. Holmes noted the reaction as alarm sped up his heart, but he refused to seem outwardly flustered.

"I'll answer the door while you dress," Holmes instructed, climbing to his feet.

Clearly panicking, Watson scrambled to the best of his ability, making a bee line for the closet. Holmes tied his robe closed as he hastily exited the room and flew down the stairs. Crossing the foyer, he paused at the front door to regulate his breathing until it was of a routine pace, then turned the handle and pulled.

Mary Morstan stood patiently on the other side.

"You underestimate me, Mr. Holmes."


	10. Chapter Ten

**Author's Note: **Okay, so I'm coming back after a five month long break (that I seriously did not intend on taking, I am **so** sorry) with a chapter that's only a little over 500 words.

I'm kind of Satan.

But the next chapter is coming the second I can get it all worked out, and it will be far more substantial than this one. I swear.

Don't kill me, I'm back!

Please?

* * *

**Chapter Ten:**

This was not a moment for levity; not even the sort designated for inappropriate times.

However, as slick tendrils of the most sincere mortification curled around Holmes' stomach, he could fathom no other immediate approach that would properly mask the conflict of his inner workings.

He tilted his head slightly, asking with suitable politeness, "And you are…?"

Mary ignored the question and invited herself in. Ever dutiful, Holmes closed the door behind her and drew in a short breath to try and convince himself that all was well.

No cause for alarm, it's simply a pleasant visit from Watson's future bride.

Mary's eyes were fixated on the stairwell. "I want to talk to him."  
Right on cue, Watson emerged from Holmes' room looking miraculously tidy. The expression of blank shock didn't come until he spotted Mary but, thankfully, he was able to reel it in so quickly that only someone with Holmes' keen perception would have noticed. Such was his hope, at least.

Watson greeted his fiancé in his usual manner, for lack of another course of action. "Good morning, Mary,"

She crossed to the bottom of the stairs. "Good morning."

He met her pointed gaze. "How did you know I was here?"

"The proper question," she corrected in a flat, but not overly harsh tone, "is 'Why _didn't_ I know you were here?'"

"Mary, I assure you, I can explain."

Holmes folded his hands behind his back and quietly positioned himself in a way that allowed him visual access to the doctor without being noticed by Mary. From here he attempted to silently command Watson not to speak of anything terribly revealing just yet. Caution was of the utmost necessity until Mary's intent and knowledge had been firmly established.

"You already have," she insisted. "We've had this discussion before and I thought we had arrived at an agreement: Detective work is not a suitable occupation for a man of family."

Holmes watched as Watson's eyes flickered to his for a small instant. He shook his head once, a slight movement, and knew his message had been received.

She was entirely unaware.

"I will not put up with deception," she assured him. "Inspector Lestrade should not be privy to your whereabouts when I am not."

Holmes made a mental note to have the Inspector framed for double homicide.

"I had planned to tell you," Watson admitted, sincerity holding his voice steady.

"Perhaps I should excuse myself," the detective suggested. "This seems to be a discourse best suited for privacy."

Mary spoke to him over her shoulder, "No need, you've seen fit to make yourself an equal part of this situation and I see no point in depriving you of your standing any longer." She turned back to Watson. "I'm left with no other option. You are either married to me or working for him—there is no middle ground. I love you, John, but I deserve a husband, not a wedded bachelor."

Watson could only watch in silence as she made her way to the door. Holmes nodded respectfully as she passed, opting to hold his tongue.

She was gone a few moments later.

Not long after, so was Watson.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Author's Note: **There will be thirteen chapters total, and the final two will be posted back to back for reasons that will be obvious when you read it. I wish these chapters could come to you faster, but as much as I love writing this thing, it takes a lot of energy to keep the style solid (despite my love for this kind of eloquence). Thus, I have to be in a very particular mood to work on it. But I solemnly swear that I will never, ever, ever abandon this fic. I love you all.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven:**

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_ It has recently occurred to me that you have yet to take a tour of my new residence. Therefore, I would like to invite you for a proper introduction on the 12__th__ of this month, at seven-thirty in the evening, if you are not otherwise engaged. I require your unchallenged intellect for an accurate assessment of the purchase._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Dr. John Watson, Nov. 8__th_

_Dearest Watson,_

_ It would be my most sincere and rapturous pleasure to thoroughly evaluate your holdings. You may expect me at the date and time offered, eager to apply my unique service to your ample estate._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Sherlock Holmes, Nov. 9__th_

Holmes sat in the jostling carriage with his elbow on the window and his chin on his palm, heavily contemplating the event to come. He may have responded to Watson's telegram with subverted facetiousness, but in actuality his current gamut of emotions had scarce room for humor of any sort. Of all the tactics he had employed during these peculiar events, Holmes felt as if none of them would be of service in the coming conversation. It was obvious that Watson had requested a meeting on somewhat neutral territory, but without knowing precisely what purpose the rendezvous was meant to serve there was no conceivable way to prepare. There are a finite number of possible outcomes to this predicament, and any one of them could rise up to become reality. The mind could only extrapolate so far, even one akin to the detective's.

Over the past days of complete silence between them, Holmes had done his very best in maintaining an objective outlook. The burden of decision was a weight only Watson's shoulders would carry in this situation, and that sort of turmoil was far more complex than Holmes' basic, though painful, task of waiting. He was fully aware of this and, only because of his razor sharp rationale, could he possibly sympathize with what Watson was undoubtedly going through. That's not to say Holmes' experience was lesser in any way, merely that Watson's dilemma had vital time constraints and imperative circumstances to consider. Such circumstances certainly affected Holmes, but he was free of the responsibility that came with handling them.

The carriage lurched to a stop, knocking his chin off his hand. Peering out the window, he beheld a quaint but respectable home sitting on a street corner of similar attributes. For all intents and purposes, it was an ideal setting for newlyweds starting out on their life together. The sight of it made his stomach turn over.

Holmes set his hat on his head and climbed out of the carriage, making his way to the front door. Now in the shadow of convention and stability, he couldn't shake the feeling that he simply did not belong—for more reasons than he cared to mull over at this particular instant.

He stepped up onto the porch and, before he had the slightest chance to ring the bell, the door opened to reveal Watson appearing perfectly normal, save for his sleep-starved eyes.

"'_Ample_ _estate_?'" Watson quoted dryly.

Holmes was unable to ignore the invitation. "'Endowed' struck me as a touch too forthright."

"You're asking for the noose."

"I'm asking for a great many things," he said pointedly. "The noose is not one of them."

Holmes stepped between Watson and the door, sliding inside with only the briefest acknowledgment of their shoulders grazing one another. His eyes drifted over the humble foyer as he heard the front door close behind him. The flippant attitude he had suddenly acquired was fresh, familiar, and terribly inconvenient. He swept his hat off his head and held it loosely in his hands.

"I'm sorry for leaving you in the dark these past few days," Watson apologized.

Holmes casually turned to him, "Hm? Oh, think nothing of it. I've grown used to long periods of self-doubt and agonizing psychological evaluation."

Watson slid his hands in his pockets. "I never meant-"

"I'm aware," Holmes gently interrupted, "My passive aggression was directed solely at the situation."

Another infamous silence came down between them, and eventually Holmes' nerves forced him to look away. He pretended to admire the surroundings.

"The staircase is rather splendid," he absently commented.

Watson cleared his throat, his tone grave. "I don't know how to start this conversation."

"It's only a staircase, Watson."

"I left Mary."

Holmes' attention snapped back to the doctor. For a man as acutely aware of his thoughts, feelings and surroundings as he was prone to be, not only had he been entirely blindsided but there was currently not a single thought running through his head.

Watson, in an overtly deliberate attempt to avoid eye contact, stared straight at the floor.

"May I offer my condolences?" Holmes asked simply, trying valiantly to hide his surge of victorious energy.

Watson glanced up at him, his expression clouded with severity, disbelief, and just a twinge of ironic amusement. "No, you may not."

"Then might I ask," he began, sneaking a step forward, "why you to took such an action?"

Watson's resolve was almost entirely firm. "Because I meant it when I said I don't want to waste a good woman's life. She deserves a man who isn't so attached to bachelor sensibilities."

Holmes' brow furrowed. That wasn't precisely the answer he had anticipated. "Is that the explanation you offered?"

"Yes," Watson nodded, his voice softening, "She looked so disappointed in me."

A moment passed, and in that flash of time Holmes could plainly read the guilt in Watson's expression. He never questioned for a second that the man had sincerely cared for one Ms. Mary Morstan, and Watson was far from insensitive.

Holmes tilted his head sympathetically. "You've nothing to be ashamed of. She's a most capable woman, and once we have you home your perspective should sharpen considerably."

Watson tensed. "I…I don't know."

He knew that specific reply was the likely one he would hear, but knowing didn't nullify the sting that shot through Holmes' chest. "Yes, of course. How foolish of me. One last query, then: Why, exactly, have I been summoned?"

The bitterness in his last words crept into his delivery before he could properly control himself; a fact Watson had evidently noticed, causing him to shift his weight.

"Plenty of reasons," Watson explained. "I needed to tell you about Mary, and I needed to ask for more time."

Holmes' eyebrows fluttered. "More time? You brought me here after three days of silence to ask for more time? Tell me, Watson, are you _entirely_ hellbent on disintegrating the most valuable mind in the United Kingdom?"

Watson advanced. "When Mary showed up at your apartment, I thought we were dead. I'm seriously considering living under that kind of stress for the rest of my life, and if you focus on this sentence more than the previous one I will throw you out of this house!"

"Gladstone will not appreciate this, Watson, my experiments are getting progressively hostile."

"What are you doing to Gladstone?"

"Nothing I don't feel like inflicting on you at the moment."

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose. "Holmes, I realize how painful waiting can-"

"No, I don't believe you do!"

The air in the room shifted as Holmes instinctively bit back the words he'd let escape. Little by little his veneer of control was slipping, and he was scrambling to keep it in his grasp. After all of the predicaments through which he had maintained a proper demeanor, it was oddly suitable that this would be his undoing. Even geniuses have their limitations.

"My apologies," Holmes uttered softly, but sincerely, "I've never had the constitution for patience."

"I hate to ask this of you," Watson said with equal candor.

Holmes shrugged lightly, "I would judge you to be too hasty otherwise. I am interested, however, in the particular arguments you happen to be struggling with."

Holmes observed as Watson took a moment to gather this thoughts. In no time at all, his dearest friend had relaxed his stance, returning to the several issues that were undoubtedly old and familiar by now. It was a notion that struck Holmes as simultaneously damning and promising. Watson looked out the window and took in the view.

"I loved this city," he said wistfully. "I loved belonging to it."

"And this is something you could not recapture in my employ?" Holmes asked, watching him gently, curiously.

"My paranoia would put a quick end to that, yes." Watson answered, eyes drifting back to the man before him. "What if you glance at me one day and the man on the corner guesses the meaning?"

"Highly unlikely. I've been looking at you in public for months and nothing's come of it thus far." Holmes enjoyed Watson's flat reaction before continuing. "The man on the corner only sees what he can conceive of. You and I are beyond his realm of perception."

Watson motioned to the both of them. "This isn't unheard of."

Holmes took in a short, inquisitive breath. "You're aware of my penchant for defining things?"

"Painfully."

"Whore houses that cater to a certain man are heard of, to an extent. That scenario has a name. We do not."

Watson crossed his arms, incredulous. "And if we pass a man with an open mind?"

"I'm not suggesting we take hold of each other in front of Buckingham Palace, Watson," Holmes pointed out.

"One count of suspicion and both our lives are forfeit."

"I am keenly aware of the repercussions, and I am also keenly aware that they matter little to me. The benefits greatly outweigh the risk in this circumstance."

"Yes, well, I also have frequent visions of us both burning for eternity," Watson stated bluntly.

"How cynical of you, Watson, to assume I'm rampant with disease."

Holmes watched, eyes shamelessly lit up, as Watson failed to hold back a smile.

The doctor's humor quickly began to fade. "I envy your resilience, but this won't be settled in your presence. The influence is too-"

"Intoxicating."

"_Insistent_."

"Semantics," Holmes declared with a brief wave of his hand. "But I will take my leave, assuming I interpreted your blatant suggestion correctly."

Watson kept a light eye on him as he moved to the door, but said nothing. Holmes approached, reaching for the handle while his stare was fixed on the man. Proximity now a dangerous aspect, Holmes tried vehemently to ignore the fact that Watson was holding his breath. He knew that look, he lived for that look, and as he leaned in he felt not even the briefest tremor of remorse.

Their mouths were only a breath away from contact, a precipice they had willingly leapt from before. As thoroughly as Homes appreciated the actions following such a leap, there was still a definite, unwavering power attached to this window of purgatory which never failed to send waves of adrenaline surging from his stomach to his heart.

Then Watson jerked away, and all events came to a disorienting halt.

Holmes exhaled, chiding himself for making such a bold move when Watson had only expressed uncertainty right from the beginning of the meeting. He broke eye contact and opened the door, loathing himself when he hesitated to leave. Watson was motionless, waiting.

Bowing his head, Holmes finally stepped onto the porch, turning back only part of the way to face his companion. "Secrecy does not always require imprisonment."

He let his words settle into the air and then, for a distinct change, Holmes was the one to quietly depart.


End file.
